==Phrack Magazine==
Volume Five, Issue Forty-Five, File 9 of 28
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No Time For Goodbyes
Phiber Optik's Journey to Prison
by Emmanuel Goldstein
It was almost like looking forward to something. That's the feeling
we all had as we started out on Thursday evening, January 6th - one
day before Phiber Optik (hereafter called Mark) was to report to
federal prison in Schuylkill, Pennsylvania for his undefined part
in an undefined conspiracy. We were all hackers of one sort or
another and this trip to a prison was actually a sort of adventure
for us. We knew Mark's curiosity had been piqued as well, though
not to the point of outweighing the dread of the unknown and the
emotional drain of losing a year of life with friends, family, and
technology.
There were five of us who would take the trip down to Philadelphia
in a car meant for four - myself, Mark, Walter, Roman, and Rob. The
plan was to meet up with 2600 people in Philadelphia on Thursday,
drive out to Schuylkill and drop Mark off on Friday, drive back and
go to the Philadelphia 2600 meeting, and return later that evening.
It sure sounded better than sending him away on a prison bus.
Knocking on the door of his family's house in Queens that frigid
night, a very weird feeling came over me. How many times had I
stood there before to take Mark to a conference, a hacker meeting,
a radio show, whatever. Today I was there to separate him from
everything he knew. I felt like I had somehow become part of the
process, that I was an agent of the government sent there to finish
the dirty work that they had begun. It doesn't take a whole lot to
join the gestapo, I realized.
I talked to Mark's father for the very first time that night. I had
chatted with his mother on a number of occasions but never his
father before then. He was putting on as brave a front as he could,
looking at any glimmer of optimism as the shape reality would take.
The prison wouldn't be that bad, he would be treated like a human
being, they'd try to visit on the weekends, and anything else that
could help make this seem like an extended vacation. As long as he
learns to keep his mouth shut and not annoy anyone, he'll be all
right. Of course, we both knew full well that Mark's forthright
approach *always* managed to annoy somebody, albeit usually only
until they got to know him a little. Imagining Mark fading into the
background just wasn't something we could do.
Everything in Mark's room was neatly arranged and ready to greet
him upon his return - his computer, manuals, a videotape of "Monty
Python and the Holy Grail" with extra footage that a friend had
sent him (I convinced him to let me borrow it), a first edition of
"Hackers" that Steven Levy had just given him, and tons of other
items that could keep anyone occupied for hours. In fact, he was
occupied when I got there - he and Walter were trying to solve a
terminal emulation problem. My gestapo duties forced me to get him
going. It was getting late and we had to be in Philadelphia at a
reasonable time, especially since it was supposed to start snowing
at any moment. And so, the final goodbyes were said - Mark's mother
was especially worried that he might forget part of his medication
or that they'd have difficulty getting him refills. (In fact,
everyone involved in his case couldn't understand why Mark's
serious health problems had never been mentioned during the whole
ordeal or considered during sentencing.) The rest of us waited in
the car so he could have some final moments of privacy - and also
so we wouldn't have to pretend to smile while watching a family
being pulled apart in front of us, all in the name of sending a
message to other hackers.
Our drive was like almost any other. We talked about the previous
night's radio show, argued about software, discussed nuances of
Star Trek, and managed to get lost before we even left New York.
(Somehow we couldn't figure out how the BQE southbound connected
with the Verrazano Bridge which led to an extended stay in
Brooklyn.) We talked about ECHO, the system that Mark has been
working on over the past year and how, since Wednesday, a couple of
dozen users had changed their last names to Optik as a tribute. It
meant a lot to him.
When you're in a car with five hackers, there's rarely any quiet
moments and the time goes by pretty quickly. So we arrived in
Philadelphia and (after getting lost again) found our way to South
Street and Jim's Cheesesteaks, a place I had always wanted to take
Mark to, since he has such an affinity to red meat. Jim's is one of
my favorite places in the world and we soon became very comfortable
there. We met up with Bernie S. and some of the other Philadelphia
hackers and had a great time playing with laptops and scanners
while eating cheesesteaks. The people at Jim's were fascinated by
us and asked all kinds of questions about computers and things.
We've had so many gatherings like this in the past, but it was
pretty cool to just pull into a strange city and have it happen
again. The karma was good.
We wound up back at Bernie S.'s house where we exchanged theories
and experiences of our various cable and phone companies, played
around with scanners, and just tried to act like everything was as
normal as ever. We also went to an all-night supermarket to find
Pennsylvania things: TastyKakes, Pennsylvania Dutch pretzels, and
pickles that we found out were really from Brooklyn. We managed to
confuse the hell out of the bar code reader by passing a copy of
2600 over it - the system hung for at least a minute!
It was around five in the morning when one of us finally asked the
question: "Just when exactly does Mark have to be at this prison?"
We decided to call them right then and there to find out. The
person answering the phone was nice enough - she said he had until
11:59 pm before he was considered a fugitive. This was very good
news - it meant a few more hours of freedom and Mark was happy that
he'd get to go to the Philadelphia meeting after all. As we drifted
off to sleep with the sun rising, we tried to outdo each other with
trivial information about foreign countries. Mark was particularly
good with obscure African nations of years past while I was the
only one who knew what had become of Burma. All told, not a bad
last day.
Prison Day arrived and we all got up at the same moment (2:03 pm)
because Bernie S. sounded an airhorn in the living room. Crude, but
effective.
As we recharged ourselves, it quickly became apparent that this was
a very bizarre day. During the overnight, the entire region had
been paralyzed by a freak ice storm - something I hadn't seen in 16
years and most of the rest of us had never experienced. We turned
on the TV - interstates were closed, power was failing, cars were
moving sideways, people were falling down.... This was definitely
cool. But what about Mark? How could we get him to prison with
roads closed and treacherous conditions everywhere? His prison was
about two hours away in the direction of wilderness and mining
towns. If the city was paralyzed, the sticks must be amputated
entirely!
So we called the prison again. Bernie S. did the talking, as he had
done the night before. This time, he wound up getting transferred
a couple of times. They weren't able to find Mark's name anywhere.
But that good fortune didn't last - "Oh yeah, I know who you're
talking about," the person on the phone said. Bernie explained the
situation to them and said that the State Troopers were telling
people not to travel. So what were we to do? "Well," the
friendly-sounding voice on the other end said, "just get here when
you can get here." We were overjoyed. Yet more freedom for Mark all
because of a freak of nature! I told Bernie that he had already
been more successful than Mark's lawyer in keeping him out of
prison.
We spent the afternoon getting ready for the meeting, watching The
Weather Channel, and consuming tea and TastyKakes in front of a
roaring fire. At one point we turned to a channel that was hawking
computer education videos for kids. "These children," the fake
schoolteacher was saying with equally fake enthusiasm, "are going
to be at such an advantage because they're taking an early interest
in computers." "Yeah," we heard Mark say with feigned glee from
another room, "they may get to experience *prison* for a year!"
It took about 45 minutes to get all of the ice off our cars.
Negotiating hills and corners became a matter of great concern. But
we made it to the meeting, which took place in the middle of 30th
Street Station, where all of the Amtrak trains were two and a half
hours late. Because of the weather, attendance was less than usual
but the people that showed up were enthusiastic and glad to meet
Phiber Optik as he passed by on his way up the river.
After the meeting we found a huge tunnel system to explore,
complete with steampipes and "Poseidon Adventure" rooms. Everywhere
we went, there were corridors leading to new mysteries and strange
sights. It was amazing to think that the moment when everybody
figured Mark would be in prison, here he was with us wandering
around in the bowels of a strange city. The karma was great.
But then the real fun began. We decided to head back to South
Street to find slow food - in fact, what would probably be Mark's
last genuine meal. But Philadelphia was not like New York. When the
city is paralyzed, it really is paralyzed. Stores close and people
stay home, even on a Friday night. We wanted to take him to a Thai
place but both of the ones we knew of were closed. We embarked on
a lengthy search by foot for an open food place. The sidewalks and
the streets were completely encased in ice. Like drunken sailors in
slow motion, we all staggered down the narrow streets, no longer so
much concerned with food, but just content to remain upright.
People, even dogs, were slipping and falling all around us. We did
our best to maintain dignity but hysterical laughter soon took over
because the situation was too absurd to believe. Here we were in a
strange city, unable to stand upright in a veritable ice palace,
trying to figure out a way to get one of our own into a prison. I
knew it was going to be a strange trip but this could easily beat
any drug.
We ate like kings in a Greek place somewhere for a couple of hours,
then walked and crawled back to the cars. The plan now was to take
Mark to prison on Saturday when hopefully the roads would be
passable. Actually, we were all hoping this would go on for a while
longer but we knew it had to end at some point. So, after a stop at
an all-night supermarket that had no power and was forced to ring
up everything by hand, we made it back to Bernie's for what would
really be Mark's last free night. It was well after midnight and
Mark was now officially late for prison. (Mark has a reputation for
being late to things but at least this time the elements could take
the blame.) We wound up watching the "Holy Grail" videotape until
it was practically light again. One of the last things I remember
was hearing Mark say how he wanted to sleep as little as possible
so he could be awake and free longer.
We left Bernie's late Saturday afternoon. It was sad because the
aura had been so positive and now it was definitely ending. We were
leaving the warmth of a house with a fireplace and a conversation
pit, journeying into the wild and the darkness with wind chill
factors well below zero. And this time, we weren't coming back.
We took two cars - Bernie and Rob in one; me, Mark, Walter, and
Roman in the other. We kept in touch with two way radios which was
a very good idea considering the number of wrong turns we always
manage to make. We passed through darkened towns and alien
landscapes, keeping track of the number of places left to go
through. We found a convenience store that had six foot tall beef
jerky and Camel Light Wides. Since Mark smokes Camel Lights (he had
managed to quit but all of the stress of the past year has gotten
him right back into it), and since he had never heard of the wide
version, I figured he'd like to compare the two, so I bought him a
pack. I never buy cigarettes for anyone because I can't stand them
and I think they're death sticks but in this case I knew they'd be
therapeutic. As we stood out there in the single digits - him with
his Wides, me with my iced tea - he said he could definitely feel
more smoke per inch. And, for some reason, I was glad to hear it.
Minersville was our final destination but we had one more town to
pass through - Frackville. Yeah, no shit. It was the final dose of
that magical karma we needed. As we looked down the streets of this
tiny town, we tried to find a sign that maybe we could take a
picture of, since nobody would ever believe us. We pulled up to a
convenience store as two cops were going in. And that's when we
realized what we had been sent there to do.
Bernie S. went in to talk to the cops and when he came out, he had
convinced them to pose with Mark in front of their squad car. (It
didn't really take much convincing - they were amazed that anyone
would care.) So, if the pictures come out, you can expect to see a
shot of Phiber Optik being "arrested" by the Frackville police, all
with big smiles on their faces. Frackville, incidentally, has a
population of about 5,000 which I'm told is about the distribution
of Phrack Magazine. Kinda cosmic.
So now there was nothing left to do. We couldn't even get lost -
the prison was straight ahead of us. Our long journey was about to
come to a close. But it had been incredible from the start; there
was no reason to believe the magic would end here. The prison
people would be friendly, maybe we'd chat with them for a while.
They'd make hot chocolate. All right, maybe not. But everybody
would part on good terms. We'd all give Mark a hug. Our sadness
would be countered by hope.
The compound was huge and brightly lit. We drove through it for
miles before reaching the administration building. We assumed this
was where Mark should check in so we parked the cars there and took
a couple of final videos from our camcorder. Mark was nervous but
he was still Mark. "I think the message is 'come here in the
summer,'" he said to the camera as we shivered uncontrollably in
the biting freeze.
As we got to the door of the administration building, we found it
to be locked. We started looking for side doors or any other way to
get in. "There's not a record of people breaking *into* prison,"
Bernie wondered out loud. It was still more craziness. Could they
actually be closed?
I drove down the road to another building and a dead end. Bernie
called the prison from his cellular phone. He told them he was in
front of the administration building and he wanted to check
somebody in. They were very confused and said there was no way he
could be there. He insisted he was and told them he was in his car.
"You have a *car* phone?" they asked in amazement. When the dust
settled, they said to come down to the building at the end of the
road where I was already parked. We waited around for a couple of
minutes until we saw some movement inside. Then we all got out and
started the final steps of our trip.
I was the first one to get to the door. A middle-aged bespectacled
guy was there. I said hi to him but he said nothing and fixed his
gaze on the five other people behind me.
"All right, who's from the immediate family?"
"None of us are immediate family. We're just--"
"Who's the individual reporting in?"
"I'm the individual reporting in," Mark said quietly.
"The only one I need is just him."
The guard asked Mark if he had anything on him worth more than
$100. Mark said he didn't. The guard turned to us.
"All right, gentlemen. He's ours. Y'all can depart."
They pulled him inside and he was gone. No time for goodbyes from
any of us - it happened that fast. It wasn't supposed to have been
like this; there was so much to convey in those final moments.
Mark, we're with you... Hang in there... We'll come and visit....
Just a fucking goodbye for God's sake.
It caught us all totally off guard. They were treating him like a
maximum security inmate. And they treated us like we were nothing,
like we hadn't been through this whole thing together, like we
hadn't just embarked on this crazy adventure for the last few days.
The karma was gone.
From behind the door, a hooded figure appeared holding handcuffs.
He looked through the glass at us as we were turning to leave.
Suddenly, he opened the outer door and pointed to our camera. "You
can't be videotaping the prison here," he said. "All right," I
replied, being the closest one to him and the last to start back to
the cars. As I turned away, he came forward and said, "We gotta
have that film." "But we didn't take any pictures of the prison!"
I objected. "We gotta take it anyway," he insisted.
We all knew what to do. Giving up the tape would mean losing all
recordings of Mark's last days of freedom. The meeting in
Philadelphia, slipping down the icy streets, hanging out in
Bernie's house, Frackville.... No way. No fucking way.
Roman, who had been our cameraman throughout, carefully passed off
the camera to Bernie, who quickly got to the front of the group. I
stayed behind to continue insisting that we hadn't filmed any part
of their precious prison. I didn't even get into the fact that
there are no signs up anywhere saying this and that it appeared to
me that he was imposing this rule just to be a prick. Not that I
would have, since Mark was somewhere inside that building and
anything we did could have repercussions for him. Fortunately, the
hooded guard appeared to conclude that even if he was able to grab
our camera, he'd probably never find the tape. And he never would
have.
The hooded guard stepped back inside and we went on our way. If it
had been dark and cold before, now it was especially so. And we all
felt the emptiness that had replaced Mark, who had been an active
part of our conversations only a couple of minutes earlier. We
fully expected to be stopped or chased at any moment for the
"trouble" we had caused. It was a long ride out of the compound.
We headed for the nearest major town: Pottsville. There, we went to
the only 24 hour anything in miles, a breakfast/burger joint called
Coney Island of all things. We just kind of sat there for awhile,
not really knowing what to say and feeling like real solid shit.
Roman took out the camcorder and started looking through the view
screen. "We got it," he said. "We got it all."
Looking at the tape, the things that really hit me hard are the
happy things. Seeing the cops of Frackville posing and laughing
with Mark, only a few minutes before that ugly episode, puts a
feeling of lead in my stomach. I'm just glad we gave him a hell of
a sendoff; memories of it will give him strength to get through
this.
What sticks with me the most is the way Mark never changed, right
up to the end. He kept his incredible sense of humor, his caustic
wit, his curiosity and sense of adventure. And he never stopped
being a hacker in the true sense. What would a year of this
environment do to such a person?
Our long ride back to New York was pretty quiet for the most part.
Occasionally we'd talk about what happened and then we'd be alone
with our thoughts. My thoughts are disturbing. I know what I saw
was wrong. I know one day we'll realize this was a horrible thing
to do to somebody in the prime of life. I don't doubt any of that.
What I worry about is what the cost will be. What will happen to
these bright, enthusiastic, and courageous people I've come to know
and love? How many of us will give up and become embittered shells
of the full individuals we started out as? Already, I've caught
myself muttering aloud several times, something new for me.
Mark was not the only one, not by far. But he was a symbol - even
the judge told him that at the sentencing. And a message was sent,
as our system of justice is so fond of doing. But this time another
message was sent - this one from Mark, his friends, and the scores
of other hackers who spoke up. Everybody knew this wasn't right.
All through this emotional sinkhole, our tears come from sadness
and from anger. And, to quote the Clash, "Anger can be power." Now
we just have to learn to use it.
Mark Abene #32109-054
FPC, Schuylkill
Unit 1
PO Box 670
Minersville, PA 17954-0670
[Letters, paperback books, and photos are acceptable. Virtually
nothing else is. And remember that everything will be looked at
by prison people first.]